


listen without words

by Dhillarearen



Series: Quiet is a Language [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (Jeremy is a sunshine boy who doesn't believe he is), (also Jeremy's mind is on other things in this fic but he's trans and post-phallo), (going nonverbal is not bad in itself but jean's relationship with it might be), Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jeremy is Trying His Best, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, recovery is not linear, this wasn't supposed to have porn and then surprise! it did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhillarearen/pseuds/Dhillarearen
Summary: Something happens during sex that reminds Jean of his time with Riko. He gets triggered and goes nonverbal. Jeremy is scared he messed up but is trying his best to help.





	listen without words

 

 

It wasn’t even the first time they had had sex, when it happened. One minute Jeremy was gasping into Jean’s mouth, shuddering hard against him and over him and _inside_ him, melting helplessly into the nails Jean was digging into his back and the hot, wet slide of Jean’s tongue—and the next Jean seized like a man electrocuted and went still. For a moment Jeremy thought Jean had come, and crowed triumphantly through his answering pulse of arousal. When Jean didn’t grumble or swat Jeremy in the back of the head, Jeremy eased himself out and pushed back onto his heels, surprised.  
  
“Are you finally admitting I’m good at that?” he asked, smile widening. Jean didn’t respond. He was staring up at Jeremy but his eyes had no heat in them—he was staring _through_ Jeremy, Jeremy realized, up towards the far corner of the ceiling, his face slack and his eyes glassy. All thoughts of pride, or of getting off, left Jeremy’s head so fast it made him dizzy. He leapt off of Jean, off of the bed, barking his shin on the dresser, but the pain barely registered. Jean’s hands slid listlessly off of Jeremy’s body and thumped beside him on the blanket.

“Jean, you’ve got to—Jean, what is it,” Jeremy said, his voice a raw croak, his blood rushing loud in his ears. In the dark, it was easy to miss the flutter of Jean’s eyelashes. _Was_ he even blinking? Jeremy couldn’t tell. Fuck, without the steady rise and fall of Jean’s chest, Jeremy might have thought Jean was dead. _That_ terrifying image spurred Jeremy forward to and lay a hand flat against Jean’s chest, making sure he could feel the heartbeat there. Soft touches had always helped Jean ground himself—whenever Jeremy was feeling particularly weepy about it, he’d wonder when was the last time, before the Trojans, that Jean was touched with anything resembling kindness—but when Jeremy tried skating his fingertips over Jean’s mouth, Jean flinched. Jeremy ripped his hands away.

“Did I do something? Jean, tell me what’s wrong,” but Jean had returned to his nonreactive state, his legs lying twisted in what was surely an uncomfortable position where they had fallen from around Jeremy’s waist. It wasn’t that Jean was tense. He was the opposite, his limbs so devoid of resistance that the bed looked to swallow him whole. Jean was still, Jeremy noticed, hard. For a moment Jeremy thought he might throw up.

The familiar ragged breaths started tightening his chest, and Jeremy gave himself ten seconds to get ahold of himself. _Jean now, panic later._

“I’m going to call someone,” Jeremy said, though he didn’t think Jean could hear him right now, wherever Jean had gone. _I don’t know how to deal this I don’t know what’s going on are you hurt I’m ruining this I’m making it all worse_ , “Jean, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m going to call Dillon,” the therapist Jeremy knew Renee had made Jean promise to visit, once a week, Thursdays at one o’clock, “I think you need him right now ( _making this all worse idiot fucking it all up, fucking UP)_ and I don’t know where your phone is, I’m going to look through your pants, here, I’ve found it!” Jeremy babbled when he got upset, and he recognized that he was doing it now, but anything was better than Jean’s awful, unseeing silence. He found the contact with shaking fingers and prayed, as the line rang, that Dillon was able to pick up.

For months Jeremy had been learning Jean’s moods, his preferences and his triggers, and the best way to respond to them so Jean wouldn’t go hurting himself or one of the Trojans. It had been—not quite a smooth path, but one that, under Jeremy’s relentless persistence and the support of the team behind him, Jeremy had been able to map out. There were bare weeks until graduation and,if he were being honest with himself, Jeremy had been feeling hopeful and a little proud. 

This, anything like _this,_ had never happened before. It catapulted Jeremy back to those first days, when he had spent all his off-court time scouring psychology websites for tips on how to help stitch back together someone who’d been as routinely tortured, lied to, and abused as Riko Moriyama’s former #3. Caring for people was part of Jeremy’s nature, learned from a childhood in a household of fussy aunties and buckets of soup, _did you eat today, how did it go with that girl from the bakery, go show your father how much your teacher liked your essay, you know how much he likes to brag about you._ Hell, half the team called him “dad,” even among the freshmen. If he’d faked it at the beginning well enough to get Jean to start opening up, then he could fake it now.

Dillon picked up. “Jean?”  
  
“It’s Jeremy,” Jeremy said in a rush, chewing on a thumbnail for a moment before he noticed and stopped himself. _Bad habit. You’re nervous, Jeremy._ “I’m Jean’s team captain?”  
  
“I’d be a poor L.A. resident if I didn’t know the captain of the USC Trojans,” Dillon said, kindly. His voice was warm, and despite the fact that Jeremy must have interrupted his evening plans he sounded as if he’d like nothing more than to listen to whatever Jeremy had to say. _A therapist voice,_ thought Jeremy. “Congratulations on that long shot against the Cougars. I was on the edge of my seat.”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy. It came out shaky. “I apologize for calling so late, but it’s Jean. He’s not moving, and I can’t get him to respond, except he flinched when I touched him, and I was wondering how best to handle this.” Team voice. Captain voice. Phrase it like he was giving a speech, or a statement, and he could let the structure of it carry him through. This wasn’t Jeremy’s first rodeo with anxiety.

“I see. Can you tell me what was happening when he got like this?”   
  
“Um.” There was still enough self-consciousness left around the fear Jeremy was feeling for Jean to allow Jeremy’s face to start burning. He wasn’t sure what Jean had told Dillon about their relationship, or if Jean had even mentioned it at all.

“Okay,” said Dillon mildly, when the silence stretched long enough to become painful (he was utterly nonjudgmental, but Jeremy’s face burned hotter). “Here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to come over there, and while I’m doing that I want you to stay with him. Try to talk to him, even if he doesn’t respond, and remind him where he is and who he’s with.” Jeremy nodded, though Dillon couldn’t see him. He’d read that on several of his psychology websites. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to touch him again, but see if you can make the space as present as possible. Turn the lights on, open the window, make noise. If you’ve got anything in your room that has a strong smell, _one he likes_ , then use that.”  
  
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“Good man,” Dillon said. The approval loosened the stranglehold around Jeremy’s chest, not completely, but a little. “I’ll be over in half an hour. If it takes longer I’ll call. I love this city but not her traffic, no?”   
  
Jeremy forced a laugh and, hollow as it was, the normalcy of bitching about L.A. traffic helped a little bit, too. He ended the call and walked back across the room, coming up short an inch beside Jean’s bed. Jean was lying in the same position he’d been before—his hands had curled slightly, pulling ripples in the sheets, but other than that he didn’t look like he’d moved. Jeremy swallowed against the threatening prickle in his throat.

“Dillon’s coming,” he said. “He’ll be here soon. I’m going to stay right here and make this place as real as possible for you, okay?”

  

The couch Jeremy and Ash had garbage-picked for the common room of the suite had never been comfortable, and against Jeremy’s nervously jittering legs it was even worse. Whether luck or something else, Ash and Jay were out with their respective girlfriends for the night, so there was nobody for Jeremy to lie to about why he was jumping out of his skin with every soft murmur he could hear from behind the closed door of his and Jean’s room.

By the time Dillon had arrived Jean had started to come back to himself in stages, first jolting when Jeremy flicked on the light and then gradually shifting and even managing to prop himself up against the headboard by the time Jeremy lighted the first of the apple-pie-scented candles Kevin Day had sent him for Christmas (the gift had been a complete surprise, but a nice one). Jeremy had by that time adjusted his forgotten dick (steel rods didn't do that by themselves), pulled on a pair of sniff-test-passing shorts and a faded red USC hoodie (KNOX—SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA EXY stamped in on the back in peeling gold letters) and spent an agony debating whether or not to dress Jean as well. His hesitance to upset Jean again by touching him finally bowed to the knowledge that Jean would be angry, when he came out of it, if Jeremy allowed him to flash his therapist, and he managed to coax Jean into a pair of frog-pattered pajama bottoms by keeping his hands firmly on the fabric and repeating his own name and the words “USC, you’re at USC, with the Trojans, in California, in the Trojans’ dorm” over and over.

The electric kettle on the kitchen counter turned off with a soft _click._ Jeremy lunged forward off the couch to grab it—he’d been trying to heat water for tea for the last hour, but hadn’t managed to pay the kettle enough attention to catch it before the water cooled again—and poured three mugs of the strongest tea his mother had sent him in her last care package. He slopped a great deal of boiling water all over the counter.

The door to his room opened. Jeremy spun around so fast he skidded on the floor and had to catch himself on the handle of the oven to stay upright. “Yes?”

“Jean wants you to come in, now,” said Dillon, smiling. He had turned out to be a man around Jeremy’s father’s age, bald and pot-bellied with a calm, no-nonsense manner that had instantly earned Jeremy’s trust. “Would you like to?”  
  
“Sure,” Jeremy wheezed. He started across the floor, doubled back to get the mugs (they burned his fingers but he was _making Jean some tea, dammit_ ) and stuck his head inside the room with as much confidence as he could muster. “Jean?”  
  
Jean had relocated to the chair in front of his desk, leaning against it on the back two legs in the way Jeremy liked to tease him for. He had his arms crossed over his chest and had obviously been sweating, but he sucked his lower lip into his mouth when saw Jeremy and the sight of some expression, _any_ expression, on Jean’s face made Jeremy’s knees wobble in relief. He quickly set the mugs down on his own desk before he could drop them and followed Dillon further into the room.

“I’ve encouraged Jean to let you know himself as much about what happened as he can,” Dillon said, settling into the other desk chair (Jeremy wasn’t upset—he didn’t think he’d be able to stop fidgeting enough to sit down again, anyway). “Do you have your phone on you?”  
  
“No, it’s by my bed,” said Jeremy, nonplussed, and went to fetch it when Dillon seemed content to wait. He’d barely picked it up when it buzzed. Jeremy jumped and looked at Dillon to see him holding up his own phone and waggling it slightly in Jeremy’s direction. Obediently, Jeremy opened the text he’d just received (UNKNOWN) and read:  
  
**UNKNOWN:** I’m going to sit here for moral support, but this is your conversation.

“What?” said Jeremy. Before he could continue his phone buzzed again.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** won’t talk. will text

“Oh! That’s okay,” Jeremy said, looking at Jean. Jean tightened his mouth and tapped the screen of his own phone, insistent.

“Right.” Jeremy returned his eyes to his own phone and wrinkled his forehead for a moment, thinking, before typing:

**ME:** Thats ok! Thank u for telling me that, def text if its better!

**ME:** Im a bit more comfy speaking out loud then writing tho, may I speak n u can text back to me?  

 Wood creaked as Jean leaned back further in his chair. Jeremy watched his face intently, afraid of missing something; Jean’s eyes went faraway for a moment again and Jeremy fumbled to type an apology but before he was half finished Jean met Jeremy’s gaze and nodded. Jeremy sagged against his bed.

“‘Thanks, ‘preciate it,” he said weakly. Jean nodded again, and then he blinked and his eyes darted over to Dillon. The following exchange of minute facial twitches must have contained a lot of information Jeremy couldn’t see, because at the end of it Dillon set his own phone down face-up beside the tea mugs and clasped his hands loosely over his belly. Jean nodded for a third time, decisive, and hunched again over his phone.

  **JOYFRIEND JEANS:** sometimes like this. speaking can be difficult

“Okay,” said Jeremy, trying to put as much reassurance into the word as he could. He wished he could think of something more useful to say.

  **JOYFRIEND JEANS:** dillon wants me to tell you that i’m not mad at you 

“Oh God, I’m so glad. I mean, you can be if you want to, or are. That’s okay.”

Jean glared, and it was even more of an expression than he’d given when Jeremy had come to the door, so Jeremy wasn’t as put off by it as he probably should be.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** i’m aware

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** do you think i’d still be here if i thought otherwise

 Something fierce and fiery spread through Jeremy’s stomach, making his mouth tilt upward and, conflictingly, tears threaten once again to fall. It was so much more of a confession that Jeremy had been able to wrest from Jean in the first six months he’d been a Trojan. Pointing that out would make Jean uncomfortable enough rescind the “I’m not mad at you” statement, however, so Jeremy remained silent and tried to project vibes of compassion and acceptance across the few feet of dorm room between them.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** i have not saved a puppy. or a goal. your expression is absurd

_We’re going to get through this,_ Jeremy thought, as Jean increased the power of his glare, as Dillon leaned forward to bring back their attention by inquiring pleasantly after the tea. _It’s not fair, what has happened to him. But I’m going to help him, and Dillon’s going to help, and he’s going to get better._

 

* * *

 

Jean emphatically did not want to tell the rest of the team anything about what had happened, which Jeremy could have predicted without the string of tersely-worded texts telling him so (but he appreciated those texts, all the same. They had come so far from Jean refusing to even look at him, or his teammates, off the court). Dillon suggested they collaborate on some explanation for why Jean wasn’t speaking. To Jeremy’s surprise, Dillon easily championed lying, if it would make Jean comfortable. In the end Jean agreed to have Jeremy tell the rest of the Trojans that Jean “wasn’t feeling well,” and leave it at that if pressed. After almost a full year with Jean the Irritable Backliner, Former Raven, Jeremy trusted his team to understand that it was code for “drop it and don’t ask again.” If they didn’t, well, Jeremy was their captain, but this wasn’t about exy and so for this he was on Jean’s side.

The heartbreaking explanation Jean had, with Dillon’s support, offered to Jeremy in their dorm room was nowhere near the whole story. Jeremy had learned enough about Jean and about the Ravens to know that. What Jean _had_ revealed was enough for Jeremy to want to dig Riko’s body up so he could bash the bastard’s face in himself. Instead, Jeremy channeled his aggression into exy. Anger was shit for technique but good for motivation, and the groans of complaint that Laila aimed at him when Jeremy forced them all through an extra set of full-court suicides at the end of practice were soothing balm to the sharpened edges of Jeremy’s temper. 

(“I thought you were the nice one,” Jean had said once, after Jeremy had slammed him against the wall with an arm across his chest.  
  
“I act nice. That doesn’t mean I always feel it.”

Instead of scoffing, Jean had leaned down, somehow managing to loom even caged in by Jeremy’s pads. _Sharp:_ that’s what Jean was on the court, and Jeremy had already started to love when he could bring it out of him.“It is good to finally see you have teeth.”)

Jeremy laughed when Laila swooned dramatically into Alvarez’ arms after her final few steps, taking Alvarez by surprise and sending them both in a heap to the floor. He jogged over, calves screaming, and the hand he offered to pull them up hauled him into a three-person hug where all involved parties kept trying to trip the others and send them back down. By the time Chase and Jay took pity and dragged them apart, Jeremy had managed to get Laila two times, Alvarez four, and had himself been brought down seven (Alvarez kept taking advantage of the ticklish spot in the small of his back).

Jean had collected a bucket of exy balls and had started shooting on the goal with singleminded focus, disregarding the rest of the team as they stumbled around packing up. “Hey, Frankfurter McGee!” Laila shouted at him, using Alvarez as a crutch to raise up on her tiptoes. “You coming? It’s cheese buns tonight and I want to get to the dining hall before they’re all out!”

Jean paused long enough to aim a middle finger her way and Laila returned it cheerfully. “Suit yourself and miss ‘em, then. Sucks to fucking suck!” She turned away and yanked off her helmet, her smile fading as she shot Jeremy a significant glance. Jeremy followed suit, propping a fist on his hip.  
  
“I’ve got it,” he said in an undertone. “Go get your cheese buns.”  
  
“I’ll save you a couple,” Laila said, knocking shoulders with him. She hesitated. “Listen, I’m not going to ask. But.”

“He’s good,” said Jeremy, also quiet, and then, when Laila continued to look at him, “and I’m good. We’re both good. Or we will be. I promise.”

“Holding you to that,” Laila said. Alvarez scrunched a hand through Jeremy’s hair before tugging Laila away and the two of them followed the rest of the team towards the locker rooms, arms around each other’s waists. Jeremy watched them go, overcome with affection for them both, and then wiped his sweaty forehead on his jersey and headed over to the phones he’d propped up against the wall beside his water bottle. They were, technically, forbidden from having phones on the court, but as captain Jeremy had decided to grant himself and Jean an exception.

Coach had offered to let Jean skip practice for the day, having been given, with Jean’s permission, a slightly more expansive version of events. Jean had put on his pads and stepped onto the court as if he hadn’t heard him. His playing had been mechanical, save for when he’d checked Jake hard enough to keep him on the ground for almost a full minute. Then he’d stood staring, tightening his hands around his racquet until Jeremy had stepped up beside him and said his name in a soft voice. Jean had jerked back violently and walked out of the lecture Coach had been giving him without any indication that he had been listening at all. 

“Careful of how high you’re lifting your left shoulder,” Jeremy said to Jean once he came back within non-shouting earshot. Jean adjusted his grip and continued shooting. When he had exhausted all of the balls in the bucket, he started towards the equipment rack for a new one. Jeremy, who had anticipated this, stepped in front of him and held out the full bucket he’d snagged along with the phones. Jean stopped, registering the sight, and then shoved past Jeremy to get new bucket anyway. Jeremy tucked the phones in his pocket, took up a position on the line, and used the balls he’d brought to set up a rhythm of shots of his own.

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, shooting and shooting and, once they had exhausted the full buckets from the rack, chasing after the already-shot balls. If Jeremy had been alone, he would have put on some upbeat music, but he knew that Jean preferred the silence. There was something mesmerizing about it, after a while, the duck to pick up a ball, aim, shoot, duck, aim, shoot, unbroken by sound except for the thud of the balls against the goal and the squeak of their shoes on the polished floor.

Jean was a backliner, but no Class I school would keep a member of the team who couldn’t make a decent goal, much less the Ravens. When Jeremy judged that Jean’s arms were in danger of giving out, he stopped shooting and thumped the butt of his racquet on the ground. At this, Jean finally stopped. He stood for a moment, chest heaving, and then sank to his knees.

“Can I get your helmet for you?” 

Jean pulled off his helmet himself, but he didn’t stand up when Jeremy walked around and knelt in front of him. Every muscle in Jeremy’s body was begging him to return to the locker room and stand under the showers until the water ran cold, but he ignored them. He fished the phones out of his pocket and slid Jean’s across the floor towards him.

With glacial slowness, Jean dragged off his gloves and reached for the phone. He set it in his lap for a long time, head bowed, before swiping it open.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** go. away.

A flash of anger bit through Jeremy’s chest, fading into frustration. He set his jaw and clenched a hand in the hem of his uniform. “No. I’m helping you with this.” If Jean would _let him._

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** jeremy.

“Jean,” Jeremy said stubbornly. If Dillon were here, he’d probably tell Jeremy to listen to Jean. That was what the psychology sites said. But Jeremy knew his boyfriend like those psychology sites didn’t, and Jeremy was not going to let him close off inside himself after all the progress they’d made this year.

( _Wrong, wrong, wrong, you’re ruining it, you’re doing it all wrong.)_

_(I don’t know what I’m doing, please, Jean, help me.)_

“You need help, and if you won’t let me give it to you I’ll call Dillon again,” Jeremy said. 

That threat seemed to hit home. Jean’s breath stuttered, and Jeremy felt like smashing his own head against the floor and sinking underground. He resisted the urge and kept kneeling.

They were silent for a long time, then. Waiting each other out. Jeremy’s legs stopped trembling from overwork and started cramping.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** i do not like this

“I know,” said Jeremy. He reached a hand out, slow as slow, and at last Jean let him tilt his chin up. Jean’s mouth was set; his eyes were rimmed with red. The anger left Jeremy in a rush, and it took all of his energy with it. He slumped sideways off of his knees and onto his ass, the floor unyielding against bruises from today’s practice and the days previous, keeping gentle hold of Jean’s chin. 

“I’m not mad at you for needing help,” said Jeremy, and he was tired, oh so very tired, for himself, but even more so for Jean.

Jean’s mouth trembled. Jeremy saw a sob rising in his throat, saw Jean clench his teeth and force it back down. It was that, after everything, that made Jeremy cry.

 

Ash and Jay might be back in the suite, so they didn’t go there. As a fifth-year on a campus he loved, Jeremy knew all of the secret hiding spots, the unused classroom in the chemistry building and the alcoves in the back of the theatre and the space at the bottom of the library stairwell that had probably once been intended for use as a bathroom but was now stacked with old reference books. 

The place Jeremy chose to lead Jean after they had showered and changed was a bench off the side of the Trojans’ court, tucked behind some foliage that would, once the budget got around to it, become a garden. Jean had taken his hand after getting dressed and was reluctant to let go, so Jeremy had been squeezing intermittently to let Jean know that he didn’t mind. He wanted to tell Jean how much he liked it, that every time Jean let Jeremy hold his hand Jeremy felt his heart turn to syrup and was overcome with the desire to kiss Jean’s cheek and forehead and mouth.  But he didn’t think Jean would be able to hear that, right now, and also he wasn’t sure if dating protocol allowed him to say something like that yet. Though what part of their relationship had followed dating protocol so far?

Jeremy sat them down against the sun-warmed brick wall and tugged their linked hands over onto his lap. He knew that soon, he was going to feel how hungry he was, but he always felt slightly nauseated after crying. 

“Hey, listen,” he said, tilting his head back against the wall and rolling it towards Jean’s profile. “I know you don’t want to, but I think we’re supposed to talk. That’s the healthy adult thing to do.”

Jean huffed. It did Jeremy’s heart good to hear it. Early on, when the team had taken on the job of rehabilitating Jean to normal collegiate life, they’d begun sorting things between the “healthy adult thing to do” and the “Jean Moreau thing to do.” It had pissed Jean off immensely at first, but eventually he had surrendered to the masses and let them joke and prod and point out some of the personal habits Jean had that were somewhat alarming.

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** i think it will be easier now. after inside

“Yeah. Me too. It was…some kind of release.”

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** well. you cried

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** is that really my name in your phone

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** change it

“I like it!” Jeremy protested, and was met with Jean’s stony frown. 

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** it’s undignified

 “Hate to break it to you, but I’m an undignified person, and you knew that when you agreed to date me.” Jeremy smiled up at Jean and was rewarded with an expression that Jeremy had long since categorized as the _you-little-fucker_ look. Still:

**JOYFRIEND JEANS:** it’s also unoriginal. jeans. really.

“All right. Fine. There. Better?”  
  
**JEAN MORBEAU:** jeremy.

“Not my best work, I know, but I needed a pun. We can workshop it after this?” Jeremy waved a hand between the two of them. He knew an avoidance tactic when he saw one, and as much as he wanted to let the conversation fall down the lighter path it was taking, it wouldn’t solve anything.“I just, I want to know what you need me to do. I feel like I’m flying without a compass, here.”

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i

**JEAN MORBEAU:** he did not like it, when i spoke french. he could not understand it.  

Jeremy decided Jean’s hand was overdue for another fortifying squeeze.

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i did not stop. it was what i kept for myself, and then kevin. i used it a little with josten. 

**JEAN MORBEAU:** but it was one thing. the only one. and sometimes

**JEAN MORBEAU:** sometimes it was easier to not speak at all. 

**JEAN MORBEAU:** especially when the master was there. but other times as well.

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i think that was what set it off, yesterday night. the memory.

This time, the squeeze was more of a clench. Jean seemed to appreciate it anyway. 

**JEAN MORBEAU:** can you not just simply put my actual name as the contact name

“If you really, really want me to,” Jeremy said, studying Jean’s face. Jean sighed and looked away, lifting a shoulder in a one-armed shrug. Jeremy raised their hands to his mouth and pressed his smile against Jean’s wrist.

“What’s it like?” he asked, when Jean had finished rolling his eyes at him. “You said it’s difficult to speak, but it seems more than just, like, when I get nervous before giving pep talks.” 

Jean paused, and thankfully it was the kind of pause that meant he was thinking, not that he was shutting down. Jeremy tugged at Jean’s hand and kissed his wrist again, the back this time, where Jean collected freckles. Jean snorted but did not pull away. 

**JEAN MORBEAU:** sometimes it is like i don’t think in words, but ideas, and i cannot make them make words

**JEAN MORBEAU:** but usually it is that i have the words in my mind but i cannot make my mouth work to speak them

**JEAN MORBEAU:** explaining it is…odd. it is like being stuck, when i try too hard to speak. it is a relief when i do not.

Jeremy thought about how Alvarez went quiet sometimes, even in the middle of a party, or when they walked together to their Eco class and the sun was perfect as only California sun could be. _Sometimes I just don’t want to talk, you know?_ she’d said, when Jeremy had asked later if she was okay. _It doesn’t mean I hate you, or whatever. It’s just like, if I want to show you something, I’ll point instead of saying ‘hey look there!’ because it would be really hard, in that moment, to make myself say that, but pointing is easy. Yeah?_

“It kind of makes sense,” Jeremy said. “I’m not going to force you to speak out loud if you don’t want to, or can’t, or however it is. That would be shitty. I mean, you still tell me things without saying them, right? Like texting. Or elbowing me in the ribs.” He dodged Jean’s attempt to do just that. “Is it…is it still okay that I speak out loud when this happens, though?”

**JEAN MORBEAU:** jeremy knox, i think discovering how to shut you up would merit a nobel prize

“I’m changing your name back to the other one.” 

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i take it back. nothing about time spent with you is a relief

 “Thanks, you’re my favorite too,” Jeremy sang. He lolled sideways into Jean’s shoulder and then froze. “Was that okay? I can not. You, uh, flinched, before.”

For a moment Jean’s warmth disappeared from beside him, and Jeremy was certain he’d fucked up. Then Jean’s arm came down around Jeremy’s waist, crushing Jeremy against Jean so close he was practically in Jean’s lap. It forced a laugh out of him, and then that felt so good that Jeremy kept laughing.

**JEAN MORBEAU:** is that why i had to collapse in the middle of the court before you would hold my hand

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i thought that was you being upset

**JEAN MORBEAU:** i had a flashback, jeremy. it’s over. i still want to fuck you.

All of the blood left Jeremy’s head rather quickly. “Oh,” he said. “In that case…”

Maybe Jeremy was a sappy fool (he was, he definitely was), but kissing Jean was _different_ from kissing anybody else. When Jean pressed his knuckles into the hinge of Jeremy’s jaw Jeremy saw his eyelids flutter, and when Jeremy darted forward to press their lips together he could feel Jean’s pulse quicken with intent. It was the work of a moment for Jeremy to swing a leg over and straddle Jean properly.

“Still good?” he asked. He made it cheeky. Jean didn’t want to be coddled, but Jeremy couldn’t just _stop worrying,_ all at once.

In response Jean raised his eyebrows and slid a hand down Jeremy’s back to wedge in the back pocket of his shorts. Jeremy conceded with a wiggle to settle himself more securely. He reached up and tugged at Jean’s ear. He laid a kiss there. Jean made a small, impatient noise that Jeremy felt rumble against his lips and then Jean turned his head to catch Jeremy’s mouth, slipping his tongue past Jeremy’s gasp and pushing back when Jeremy tried to crowd him against the wall.

Probably, it was a bad idea to do this outside.

Jean tightened his grip on Jeremy’s ass and hauled him closer. The rough bricks scraped against Jeremy’s knees. They scraped against his elbows, too, when Jeremy dragged his hands through Jean’s shower-damp hair and kissed him hard. It was difficult to focus; Jeremy kept getting distracted by Jean’s other hand, which had left Jeremy’s jaw to rub over his hip and then follow a long, generous sweep up his spine the nape of Jeremy’s neck, and Jean _knew_ Jeremy was sensitive there, the bastard. 

Probably, the overgrown hedges would conceal them from view?

Jean smacked lightly at the side of Jeremy’s head, _pay attention,_ and rocked forward just a bit, and fuck, Jean was hard, and Jeremy was twenty-three and really, really gay. Jean hummed into Jeremy’s mouth, a sound of concentration, and Jeremy was even gayer.

Belts and zippers were too loud, jangling against the bench and surely echoing across the concrete walkway just around the corner. Jeremy spared a thought for what would happen to his athletic scholarship if he were caught with a dick in his hands behind the Court, and then he cupped his hand around the shape of Jean through his boxers and Jean whined and hitched his hips, and Jeremy decided to stop caring. They had to stop kissing to separate enough for Jeremy reach past Jean’s waistband and for Jean to spit into his palm and wrap it around Jeremy’s cock, and the angle was terrible, really awful, it would be much more pleasant if they waited until they were back at the dorm, and  _oh fuck that’s good, Jean, what the fuck, do you have practice getting jocks off against walls—_

Jean shook his head and tapped the center of Jeremy’s chest twice,  _just you,_  and Jeremy considered that it was unfair for one man to be good at exy  _and_  incredibly handsome  _and_  good in bed. Or bench, as it were. Perhaps some of this was apparent on Jeremy’s face, because Jean smirked, and Jeremy’s blood throbbed in response; but Jeremy had a few tricks of his own. He switched hands, using his right hand to pull away Jean’s underwear while his left worked him up and down, and took the boost to his ego when Jean moaned.

Jean shoved his face into the side of Jeremy’s neck and shuddered when he came, mouth opening and closing against Jeremy’s shirt. Jeremy had about two seconds to enjoy the tiny, aborted thrusts Jean made as he came down, like he wanted to chase another orgasm but was holding back (Jeremy hadn’t gotten around to bringing the subject up with Jean yet, because they had only been dating for two months, but it was definitely On A List). Then Jean tightened his hand and sped up, and Jeremy stopped thinking. 

“Shit,” Jeremy said, panting against Jean’s chest. Jean’s shirt was sweaty, and the outline of his pectoral muscles was not good for Jeremy’s poor, fried, horny brain. “Good job team.”

Jean snorted, and then started shaking. He was _laughing,_ Jeremy realized; Jean had done it few enough times in the last year for it still to be a novelty. The curve of his tight-pressed lips was beautiful, so Jeremy kissed it. 

“The good thing about sex outside the court here,” Jeremy said, after Jean had taken his time returning the kiss, “is that there’s showers just a couple feet away.”

(Jean shoved him under the cold spray, later, but then, Jeremy had tried to swap out Jean’s body wash for hair gel when Jean wasn’t looking, so fair was fair.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I read in Nora’s extra content that Riko subjected Jean to sexual abuse and I was like, oh, let’s explore how that fucked him up, because (iirc) he seems fine with touch. And I’ve bought into the Jeremy-has-anxiety idea that I love and that I’ve seen…a lot of places?…are we fandom or are we dancer 
> 
> Going nonverbal, while it can be a response to trauma, is not always such, and is not bad. Jean, personally, has a bad relationship with going nonverbal, because of ~~Riko~~ mr. dickwad maxima. I thought that considering what I’ve read about Jean it made sense as a response to his particular trigger, here. I also think that Jean believes he’s not allowed to go non- or semi-verbal unless it’s for trauma, so he gets angry at himself for it and tries to deny it happens. Alverez helps him with that. 
> 
> Dillon could probably have gotten to “okay, stop touching him until he knows where he is, and then offer soft gentle positive touch” if he’d had more information, but therapy with Jean is probably like pulling eyeteeth. Also, Jeremy knows about the Moriyamas (some, at least), and Jean trusts Jeremy more than he trusts Dillon. Dillon is a good therapist who is doing the best he can
> 
> That French guy—> Frenchie—> Frankie—> Frank—> Frankfurter McGee (the evolution of nicknames is wild)


End file.
